A Time of Miracles Read Online Free PDF Page B

Complex was much better than Souma-Soula.
    “Come on, Monsieur Blaise,” Gloria makes fun of me, “don’t annoy me with your French manners, and help me hammer this roof.”
    We become friendly with the Betov family, the one that was walking with a cart on the road. There is the father, the mother, the grandmother, and the five children. They are our new neighbors. They lend us a hammer and nails, and their son, Stambek, helps us carry what we need to build a shed. Now Gloria and I have to get busy.
    I learn to mix dirt, straw, and stones to fill in the gaps between the pieces of wood. I dig and flatten, I plantand lift. Gloria is very clever with her hands, thanks to what she learned at Vassili’s: she covers a window opening with plastic and puts a latch on the door so that it closes.
    She explains that the roof of corrugated iron must have a pitch, otherwise the snow will accumulate on top and the whole thing will collapse.
    Finally, she shows me a spot behind one of the walls, where I’m supposed to dig a hole.
    “What’s it for?” I ask.
    “Well, it will be to do our business!” she answers with a wink.
    “Oh, OK.”
    It gives me a funny feeling to dig our toilet. In the Complex we shared toilets with the other people on the floor, but here we’ll have our own private corner. Gloria says that we’re becoming bourgeois. I don’t understand that word, but she laughs so hard that I laugh with her, right by the edge of our future poop hole.
    Stambek is nearly fifteen. He’s two heads taller than me and his shoulders are as wide as a man’s. He reminds me of Abdelmalik, but he’s white instead of black. He and I get along: I talk, he listens.
    Mr. Betov often knocks on his son’s head. Afterward he says, “Quiet!” and adds, “Listen how it echoes in there!”
    I prick up my ears and Stambek does too, his eyes closed, but we don’t hear anything.
    Mr. Betov sighs. “It doesn’t matter. What’s important is to have both arms,” he says, grumbling.
    Stambek smiles and rolls up his sleeves. His arms are muscular and hairy, and he’s got veins that remind me of the rivers in my atlas. He motions for me to pull up my sleeves. I make a face. My arms are like twigs.
    But Mr. Betov is right. At Souma-Soula everybody uses their arms to work, even the children. That’s how it is if you want to eat.
    We’ve barely finished nailing down the roof when Gloria and I head over to the hiring station. This time we won’t be holding out our hands the way we did at Kopeckochka. The hiring supervisor, whom we call Chief, points to a gigantic grayish pile that undulates over kilometers. It’s a sort of bare mountain. On top of it I see clusters of people who are squatting.
    “You dig through the dump,” Chief explains. “I’ll lend you tools, which you’ll bring back to me every evening. If you lose them, or if they’re stolen, you’ll have to pay for them. Is that clear?”
    “What are we looking for?” Gloria asks.
    “This!” Chief answers, taking a small metal cylinder topped with a wire out of his pocket.
    He puts it in our hands so that we can see what it looks like.
    “A lightbulb cap?” Gloria says, surprised.
    “Exactly! But what we’re interested in is the nickel wire. You dig, find the caps, and save the wire. At the end of the day you’ll be paid according to the weight of the nickel you’ve gathered, is that clear?”
    I nod as the list of elements that Mrs. Hanska madeus repeat so often comes back to my mind by bits: neon, neptunium, nickel.… I’m really pleased to use my knowledge.
    So Gloria and I climb the mountain with our tools that look like grapnels. Chief assigns us to a spot, which we share with the Betov family. Even the grandmother, with her bad legs, is working.
    “Be careful,” Mr. Betov warns us, “there’s broken glass everywhere. It goes under your skin if you’re not careful.”
    I squat near Stambek. He digs at an incredible pace, sorting the caps and the nickel